Her True And Last Confession
by EugeniaVictoria
Summary: Anne, innocent traitor, makes her last confession in the Tower of London. Cranmer's POV.


_Note: I was a little confused about the events prior to Anne's death, especially Cranmer's role in it. Wikipedia has it: "On 16 May, he saw Anne in the Tower and heard her confession and the following day, he pronounced the marriage null and void. Two days later, Anne was executed." But, on The Tudors, Cranmer first declares her marriage null and void, and then he goes to hear her confession, I guess on the 18th of May, and the next day, May 19, she's executed. Anyhow, I chose the version of The Tudors, but if anyone could enlighten me as to why they changed the actual course of events for the series, then go ahead. _

**Her True And Last Confession**

It was on a chill and misty morning anno domini 1536, that Archbishop Cranmer set out at last upon his journey to the Tower of London. He entered the provided boat in silence and said nothing as they made their way across the Thames, neither to the young man who took him to his destination, nor to anyone passing by. Today, he paid no mind to the beauty of the swiftly flowing river, the vastness of the sky and the sight of the prosperous city. He did not care for the salutations coming from passengers of other boats and he did not greet in return - for his heart was heavy indeed.

As a solitary ray of sunshine found its way through the clouds, Thomas realized that this was the most pitiful May he had ever known. Was not May, in all its glory, the herald of summer, a month of pleasant warmth and sparkling blue sky? The successor of April with its chill winds, May would always bring life and spirit, the golden kiss of the sun, and people would rejoice.

But not this year. There was no comfort in the faint breeze and heavy clouds obscured the brightness of the sun. The city of London on both sides of the Thames was not as bustling and joyful as usual, or so at least it seemed to the Archbishop, sitting in his boat with his head down and his eyes staring ever forward. _But how on earth could it be different?_ he thought with a heavy heart. How should May be as beautiful as ever, how should the sun shine with all its might, when soon a_ Queen_ would suffer death? It was as if the whole world had been cloaked in misery and coldness - as if God in His omnipotence was sorrowful and had decided to befog England to protest against the unjust treatment of a crowned monarch.

For, in the Tower of London, there was imprisoned Anne Boleyn, once wife to the King, mother to a Princess – and condemned to die.

He, Cranmer, was on his way to her, the doomed queen, locked up in her lodgings where she had once lain at her coronation. He, of all people, was now bound for the place where she dwelled, to hear her last confession and cause her further pain. _Oh God, forgive me_, he thought, sighing deeply as they came closer and closer to the riverside. Anxiety and remorse welled up in him as he thought of what he had done.

He had played his part in crushing her. Not contempt but a feeling of duty had made him do it, and thus he had contributed to her downfall. He had declared her marriage to the King null and void, knowing all the while of the great wrong he was doing to this gracious queen who had always been so dear to him. Coward, that was the only proper name for him. Although he had told Cromwell of his doubts regarding Anne's guilt, he had done nothing explicit to safe her. He was a fool, a fool who had not behaved righteously towards a woman who had only ever loved and supported him in all the years of their acquaintance. He was not worthy of her love and the joy she would undoubtedly express upon seeing him again. He was not worth it.

Out of fear, like so many others, he had sacrificed his integrity and true sentiment in order to maintain his position. He had even feared for his life. Many had learned brutally that those who defied the Henry VIII were lost, and no matter how much Cranmer loved Anne, he was unwilling to lose his life. There were too many things he still wanted to achieve, too many good deeds to be done. He was the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Reformation needed him …

Still, no matter how many justifications he came up with in his troubled mind, he knew he had forsaken Anne, and suddenly he was frightened. Although he had been desirous to see her again and speak with her, he shivered involuntarily at the prospect of facing her soon. Alas, his conscience was not clear and his tidings were not sweet. Would that this meeting took place under different circumstances, a merry gathering of old friends! How they would laugh at the old times, rejoice at the establishment of their faith. How they would cheer and talk earnestly about the Reformation, how they would …

A sudden jolt shook him out of his reverie. Looking up from his clasped hands he noticed with surprise that they had reached the riverside. Before them loomed the Tower.

The boy navigated the boat to the landing stage and called to the other men at work. They came over, recognized Cranmer, and bowed before they fastened the boat and helped him out. The boy accompanied him down the landing to the entrance of the fortress, where his eyes suddenly went dark, and bowing low he said: "Your Excellency, I bid you farewell and ask for your blessing."

Cranmer, moved by the look in the boy's eyes and aware of his own silence during the boat trip, put his hand lightly on the golden head. "May God in His infinite grace bless you and keep you all the days of your life." He made the sign of the cross on the boy's smooth brow and smiled, but as he turned to leave, the young man said, daringly: "Your Grace, is it true that you have come here to hear the good lady's last confession?" Turning around slowly, Cranmer looked at him, astonished. Since the trial he had not heard many positive voices whenever people spoke of Anne Boleyn, and they hardly ever spoke of anything else these days.

"`Tis true, my son", he replied, "how come you care for her?"

The boy shrugged. "Once, before she was queen, I took her from one side of the river to the other. A strong wind was blowing, and when my cap got lost and fell into the water, she gave me a coin - to get me a new one, that's what she said. Mistress Anne, she was so good and beautiful... I think she cannot be as bad as everyone claims."

He bowed once more and the Archbishop smiled at the boy's bittersweet story of a time gone by. The Lady Anne would never cross the Thames again, and the last coins she'd ever hold in her hands she would give to the executioner of Calais.

Cranmer watched silently as the boy strode back to the landing, and then he turned to walk to the royal entrance of the Tower, wondering what the next hours would bring.

The guards in their red uniforms welcomed him and opened the heavy doors with a crack, revealing to his eyes the interior of London's most famous stronghold. Every time Cranmer entered the Tower, a shiver ran down his back, and today was no different. He thought of the versatility of this building. It was a place of torture and execution, and within these walls death cut away the light of many days. Yet, on the other hand, it was a place of the Queens. Anne Boleyn herself had lain here before her coronation. In her lodgings she had feasted and rejoiced, laughed and celebrated her greatest triumph. And now the circle was being closed. Here, where she had once awaited the most important day of her life, she would be put to death.

It was a short way, but to Cranmer it felt like hell. They guided him past the White Tower, alongside Tower Green, and finally to the queen's apartments. There they knocked on the bold black door and waited until the archbishop was ushered in.

He stepped inside and was greeted by another guard. "Your Grace, Master Kingston is waiting for you. This way, I pray you." He led him down a gloomy corridor, round a corner, and to a small parlour where indeed the Constable stood waiting. Kingston bowed slightly and dismissed the guard before turning back to the archbishop. "Sir, I understand you have come hither to hear the lady's last confession. Let me take you to her." He held out his hand in the direction of another corridor, and Cranmer obliged. They walked in silence for a moment, and Thomas glanced at the man walking beside him. Kingston was tall of figure, impressive even, with a stern face and keen eyes that had seen much pain and death. There was something very calm and controlled about his demeanour, as if the agony of the people he was in charge of did not touch his soul. _But then,_ Cranmer thought, _if Kingston were to weep for all the victims, he would not be able to do his business as Constable of the Tower._

As they approached the queen's lodgings, Thomas wondered if Kingston had any sympathy for the Queen. He had been told that the man was a secret promoter of Katherine of Aragon and her daughter, Mary, Anne's sworn enemies. But he also knew that Kingston was a man of honour. He would offer nothing but politeness and service to a prisoner such as Anne, the former wife of a king.

They walked down the long corridor, and as they were nearing the door to Anne's lodgings, Cranmer said: "Master Kingston, tell me, how is the lady?"

He watched him anxiously, wringing his hands, but Kingston's features did not change in the slightest way.

"Truthfully, in the early days of her captivity she often spoke rather wildly, for example, that it would not rain until she was released. But now, preparations for death have increasingly occupied her thoughts, and so I believe she has reconciled to it."

They had reached the door. Cranmer, high-strung and unable to control his nerves, nodded several times. "I'm glad. I'm glad." It relieved him indeed to know that she had accepted her fate, but nevertheless it pained him to think of what he was about to tell her.

Leaning in towards Kingston a little bit he admitted: "Although it grieves me that I must cause her further pain."

When the door opened, Cranmer beheld a big room with high walls that radiated no warmth or coziness. There was a luxurious bed and many things of value, and the furnishing was expensive, but it seemed to him the room was filled with an aura of grief and approaching destiny.

He entered with Kingston behind him, and the ladies in waiting hurried to one side and curtsied. He did not even look at them.

For there she was.

Cranmer's anxiety returned with full force. What would he say?

Anne Boleyn, her back facing the two men, turned around and stepped forward to greet Kingston with a respectful nod and the Archbishop with a friendly expression.

She was impeccably dressed in a blue gown with wide sleeves and a necklace made of pearls, adorned with a sparkling cross, an ornamental symbol of her true belief.

Cranmer eyed her face closely and noticed that she was pale and looked a little tired, but she was holding her head high, and had obviously not lost the royal aura that had always impressed him. She was every inch a queen - and yet, something about her was different. She did not try so hard to appear important and grand as she had done for many years at court. Her beautiful eyes did not seek for attention or praise. Instead, she kept a calm, almost rigid composure and looked at him with neither accusation nor plea in her gaze.

As he had expected, she gave him a cordial smile and slightly bent down her dark head to salute him. "Mister Cranmer," she said with that ringing voice of hers, "so you have found me. Tell me, how do you do?"

He stepped closer, wondering if in this hour of sorrow she really was as strong and steadfast as she seemed to be. A wave of true respect for this woman came over him, and he bowed.

"Your Majesty," he said, purposely using that title although he knew she was no longer Queen. "I am … all is well with me. I have come hither to hear your confession. If your ladies would prepare everything."

The women paced about the room, provided a chair for the Archbishop and put out the utensils for mass; which would follow the confession. One of them lightened a candle. Cranmer walked over to the desk, trying to calm down, before he faced Anne again. "My lady, I am obliged to tell you that your marriage to the king has been declared null and void."

If that shocked her, she did not show it except by a small intake of breath. Her hands were folded, she did not move. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds of your close and forbidden degree of affinity to another woman known carnally by the king." He did not dare look at her.

"My sister," she concluded, almost smiling, as if amused at the absurdity of the whole affair. Cranmer was merely able to mutter a "yes".

It seemed to him the news of her destroyed marriage did not affect her, or rather, that she had been prepared for such tidings. But he knew she would care about how this development would affect Elizabeth.

"Then my daughter is …" she trailed off.

Thomas gathered all his courage and faced her. "Yes. Elizabeth is to be declared a bastard." She looked up at him for a mere moment and breathed heavily. Her lids closed tightly and her breast rose and fell, as if only now she realized the full impact of her own downfall, and the inevitable consequences for her beloved child. Cranmer felt it, too. He had loved Elizabeth and he loved her still, and he could not imagine Anne's pains. The pains of a mother locked in prison, her daughter far away and lost among people who had once served her as their Princess and would now acknowledge her as nothing more but the daughter of an adulteress.

"Madam, I swear to you I will do everything within my power to protect and support her and keep her always in the king's good and kind graces."

He vowed easily, for this he had promised himself: He had failed the mother, but he would not forsake the daughter. And if it was possible, then he would do anything to keep her in Henry's favour, and thus secure for her what he and Anne desired most in the world for the little red-haired girl: the crown of England.

He felt Anne's hand on his arm, and saw her looking at him with relief in her eyes.

"Thank you. And now, since my time approaches, I beg your Grace to hear my confession."

He inclined his head and led her over to his chair, but suddenly she let go of him and turned around to hold out her hand to Kingston. "Also, I should like the Constable present when I receive the good Lord."

As always, Kingston's expression revealed nothing, but he obliged, and took his seat on a nearby chair. Maybe it would be a good thing to have another person present, Cranmer figured, so that later, no one would be able to spread rumours that he, the Archbishop, a protestant and friend of the Boleyns, had embellished or devised the lady's last confession.

A deep silence fell, and it was time. Thomas sat down, and Anne kneeled gracefully next to him. The solitary candle spread a warm glow and bathed her peerless profile in a faint golden light. All was set, priest and sinner ready for the final shrift. This was her last chance to receive the good Lord and admit her sins, a moment of truth, a moment of destiny. Her last confession.

Cranmer closed his eyes, not sure what to expect. "My child, do you have a confession?"

To his surprise, she did not falter for a moment, but her voice was defiant and controlled as she replied with cool dignity:

"Yes. I confess my innocence before God."

He turned to her, astonished and glad. Of course she would not back down, of course she would not admit something she had not done. She met his gaze proudly, and went on: "I solemnly swear on the damnation of my soul that I have _never_ been unfaithful to my lord and husband, nor ever offended with my body against him. I do not say that I have always born towards him the humility which I owed him, considering his kindness and the great honour he showed me, and the great respect he always paid me. I admit to you that I had often taken it into my head to be jealous of him. But God knows and is my witness, I have not sinned against him in any other way."

Having said that, she gazed at her confessor with a look that allowed no doubts about her words.

"Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life. God has told me how to die, and he will strengthen my faith. As for my brother… and those others who were unjustly condemned… " Her tone was somewhat cunning now, but there was no harsh accusation in her voice, only bewilderment and sorrow. Cranmer held his breath and his lids fell, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Kingston seemed to be moved by the lady's words as well. They both knew, as so many others did, that Anne Boleyn's alleged lovers had died without justice. Once again, the Archbishop was reminded that only one day prior, this woman had lost a most beloved brother who had been her confidant and true supporter at court for more than a decade. And as for the other men… it was an outrage.

"I would willingly have suffered many deaths to deliver them," she continued, "but since I see it pleases the king, I will willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance: That I shall lead an endless life with them … in peace."

She inclined her head and looked down. The ladies in the background moaned sadly, and Cranmer let out a sigh. So touching and impressive were her words that he could barely say something. This was not the confession of a witch, but the testament of an innocent woman who had lived all the days of her life with the knowledge of an almighty God who would now have mercy on her soul.

She had not uttered the slightest remark against the King who was so desirous to see her dead, nor had she spoken of the men, including her own uncle, who had sentenced her, nor had she protested against her unfair predicament. Instead, she had made it clear to all in the room and the world, with simple and elegant words, that she was not guilty of the charges laid against her.

After all, it was true what even her enemies would admit: that in manners and speech she excelled them all.

He made the sign of the cross on her brow. "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." And to the Constable he said: "Master Kingston. Go and report my Lady's true and last confession, so the world know it."

Kingston said: "I will," and, taking a bow, left the room.

Cranmer noticed that Anne was looking at him with a friendly expression, grateful for his belief in her words. She looked calm and composed, but as he got up to prepare himself for mass, she reached for him. "Mister Cranmer! Don't you think that even at this last hour the evangelical bishops we put in place might intervene for me?" Her eyes were a torment to him, pleading, pleading, pleading. So she was frightened. And he could not help her.

"Your Majesty, I…" He tore himself lose from her in an attempt to step aside, unsure how to react.

Her face fell. "Of course not. How could they, forgive me."

And she closed her eyes and said nothing.

In the next hour, Cranmer celebrated Holy Mass with her and administered Holy Communion. They prayed together, and he gave her absolution once more when she declared her innocence for a second time. Sometimes her voice fell to a mere hush, the next moment she would speak with fierce conviction. Every time she voiced her fear and hopes for Elizabeth, Cranmer soothed her and reminded her of the benevolence of God, advising her to commit her daughter to His care. As she beseeched Jesus for mercy, the Archbishop could not tear his eyes away from her.

Even now, in captivity, she had lost nothing of her beauty. Her gaze was as striking as ever, her skin showed no sign of age, and the mass of dark hair still surrounded her face like a veil of ebony silk. As she knelt there, her lips moving, Cranmer's eyes wandered with a shudder over her little slender neck. Soon, a blow would break it, a sword would end her life, and he thought what a waste and scandal it was.

Everything about her was arresting, tempting, so very desirable. It seemed logical to him that this woman had captured the heart of one of the greatest monarchs in Christendom and kept it for years. This had nothing to do with witchcraft. She was a goddess among men, there was no denying, a dark Venus enabled to seduce every living man on earth. But Nature itself must have blessed this lady with charm, elegance, and grace. Truth be told, hers was not the tender grace of Jane Seymour, the calm dignity of Katherine of Aragon and the Lady Mary - hers was the strength of an amazon, a wild thing, powerful and vivacious, sensuous and provoking. But he knew that underneath her ambition there was a true and loyal heart, a loving and generous soul, a humble believer.

She certainly was a good mother, and a woman of true and firm religion - among all females he had always judged her to bear the greatest love towards God and His Gospel.

Unfortunately, few had tried to take a look beneath the surface of the scorching beauty with the wicked smile, the "witch" who had been the passion of the king for so many years, the curse of Katherine and Mary, the damnation of Wolsey, the defender of the new belief, the outrageous seductress who had taken a court by storm. Few had lingered for a moment to eye her without contempt and see her just as she was: a courtier driven by high aims and love for the king, pushed and pulled by her father and her whole clan. And no one, that was for sure, perhaps not even the King himself, had ever known her true inner self, the core of her that was purely Anne Boleyn.

People had paid no mind to the fact that she was so much more than just the Great Concubine, the whore of Henry VIII … and now it was too late.

For she was doomed to die, and nothing would save her now, unless a miracle would change the King's mind and she was freed.

What a pity that she would be dead before noon, the Queen of England, who had ruled in such splendour for but three years. She was a remarkable woman, and as she hovered there, looking up at him with the eyes that had tempted so many, waiting for his blessing, he thought that never had a female shown more courage in the face of doom. Death was in the air, surrounding her, and yet she was not faltering, not crying_. A spirit worthy of a crown,_ he thought with some tenderness, and pity welled up in him once more for this woman who had been condemned for nothing but lies.

He blessed her and began one last time, "Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…" The message of the verses rang out to him more clearly than ever. He would always remember this hour, this moment, this place, Anne.

At last he said "Amen," and she repeated it, and thus they had come to the end of Mass. After he had helped her up and she had smoothed her skirts, a sober look came to her face.

She looked him in the eye, knowing it was their farewell, farewell for good. She would only see him one last time, tomorrow, and there would be no chance to speak.

"Your Grace, I thank you for your coming, the comfort you have given me, and your support... and the love I always judged you to bear towards me and my matters. I ask you to pray for me, tomorrow when we shall meet again, and afterwards. I beg you to beseech Jesus to have mercy on me, that I may find the way to our good Lord."

Cranmer gulped and nodded. "Majesty, I shall pray for you, now, tomorrow, and ever."

She smiled, gratefully, but with tired eyes. "Before you go, I remind you of the promise you have made, and I recommend unto you my daughter, Elizabeth."

"Madam, I will never let go of that promise. I will never let go."

With this, he took her hand and kissed it. "I beseech your Majesty not to quiver in this hour of sorrow. God _will _have mercy on you, my blessed lady. I make this vow, that until the end of my days I will keep your Majesty in good memory, all the things you did for me, and the way you supported and promoted God and His Gospel."

Their eyes met, and it seemed to him as if she pardoned him all: the role he had played in her downfall, his lack of courage. There was only love and friendship between them, and the memory of the old days when they were careless and free of such sorrow.

"Thank you. Be at peace, for I told you, God has taught me how to die and He will strengthen my faith. It will be a comfort to me, when I look down at the crowds, to see your face among them."

At her reference to the scaffold he shuddered inwardly, but for her sake he collected himself and said with as much dignity as possible: "Farewell, my mistress and Queen. May God keep you and bless you, now, and at the hour of death."

And so he left, nodding to the ladies, but when he reached the door and the guards opened it for him, he turned around once more and bestowed on the lady a look of compassion.

She stood watching him with kind regard in her eyes, and Cranmer thought his heart would break at the sight of her. So beautiful, so mighty, and so broken.

He inclined his head to hide his sadness from her, and then he walked through the door, never looking back. He heard the heavy wood close behind him, and it was to him as if that startling sound had parted them forever.

He made his way out, taking no heed of the guards offering their help to him. He needed to breathe fresh air, remind himself that he was still among the living. Never in his life had he known such grief and remorse, such rage even.

He could not fathom the injustice of the world that had brought Anne Boleyn to the scaffold, the unfairness that was spreading at the English court with more speed than the plague itself.

They had brought her to death with their false accusations. Cromwell, Jane Rochford, all of them. There was only one comfort: that God would take vengeance, and they would pay for their lies. And Cranmer, a submissive soul if there ever was one, in his rage, also thought of the King. He knew he was in no place to criticise a monarch, but it was as clear as day that Henry VIII, man among men, lord of lords, had gone too far. The breaking with Rome (of which Cranmer wholeheartily approved, of course) and his own insufferable greed for absolute power had set free a monarch who, if necessary, would declare the whole world his enemy if it gave him what he desired. Anne had been in his way, and he had cast her aside. Loved and admired one moment, hated and despised the next. Desired by a golden prince of Christendom, killed by a tyrant unleashed.

She would die an innocent traitor. When the blow fell, she would be an adulteress before the law, but a queen before God. Of that Cranmer was ultimately sure, and as he left the Tower relief flooded through him. He breathed the fresh English air, and he thought the sky was not as grey as before. His shoulders straightened, his body relaxed and he made his way over to the landing stage, leaving Anne and the Tower behind.

He had feared this meeting with her, but now that it was done he was glad that he had seen her one last time, in private. For tomorrow… no, he could not think of that now.

They helped him into a boat, and then the Thames took him away, away from the walls of the Tower, to the palace where duty awaited – away from Anne and her destiny. Cranmer did not look back, but he fulfilled his promise and prayed for her, with all of his heart.

Soon the world would know of her true and last confession, the pure and humble words she had spoken upon her last reception of the good Lord. The rich and the poor, the meek and the mighty, the beggar and the princess, they would learn what she had confessed, Anna Regina, the doomed wife of the king, locked in the Tower of London. To their ears would come the confession of the Great Whore, and they would be silenced, for in her words there was no accusation, only courage and dignity in the eye of inevitable death.

And when at last her words would reach the palace and the rooms of the King, even to Henry VIII her genuine discourse would ring out, and the lion would hush for a moment, wondering about her - gracious Anne Boleyn, Queen of the thousand days.


End file.
